MJRN-870 did not dream that night. Nor had she dreamt the night before, or the night before that, or the night before that, or the month before that, or the months before that, or the year before that, or the years before that. 870 did not even know what a dream was. That knowledge had long fled her mind. Sleep brought only silence and nothingness, the perfect reprieve from a long day, no matter how short that sleep was. The morning broadcast could come at any time. The morning train could be shifted, leaving them almost no time to eat or make it. You better make it, even if you were hungry. Especially if you were hungry. Common lore amongst the Civitas were that the Pubs worked better when they were starving.
The next day started the same as the last. 870 awakened before the broadcast began, before the anthem played. She lay there in her bed roll staring out in the darkness at the ceiling. Feeling the occasionally droplet of water crash down upon her. 870 thought of what her parents had once told her, the night before they became Publicas. The last night she had spent in a real bed, as a real person with a real name. The Mare Undarum wasn't the worst place to be. The worst place had been the Mare Frigoris, one time home of the Publicas. A literal frozen hellscape that according to legend was sunk to the bottom of the sea by a Publicas rebellion, but there was no evidence to prove that, or even that the Frigoris had ever existed. A story to make his daughter feel better about her new un-life as an un-person.
Once more 870 dragged herself out of the bedroll and stood up, stepping over the bodies of her un-family in perfect darkness. Slinking through the corridors and into the common area where their morning meal would be served. Looking across the way, an old woman tapped thrice upon the wall, a signal that it was a shower day. Once a week the Publicas were permitted to cleanse themselves, lest they offend those above them. That was unless you served the Perfectas, then you were allowed to shower twice a week. Everything was arranged by random cluster of numbers of those who lived in this residence. The only guarantee is that you were never with your family unit. That might be too comfortable.
With little more than a nod, 870 disappeared into the room of broken tiles where shower heads hung down from the ceiling. Two knobs on the wall, one with the letter representing Hot, the other representing Cold. When 870, or anyone else for that matter turned the knob for hot, water flowed but it was ice cold, every single time. One could, of course, eventually stop recognizing this, and adjust, but 870 never did. Slipping out of her dressing gown, folding it neatly she proceeded to shower as was her privilege on this glorious day. Every day was a 'happy day,' a 'glorious day for Sauveterre.
Even in the dim light, you could make out every bruise and scar on her body. You could practically count every rib, or see the places where broken ribs hadn't healed just right. Her body was strong, despite its appearances. 870 had mastered the art of being just starved enough to still do her tasks and avoid death. She passed on whatever food she could. There was a quiet beauty and grace in her frame. The woman who stood here was not the woman who was on the train with 810. This was both more real than that woman, and more of a lie at the same time. A twisted paradox. The four minutes they were allowed wasn't enough to do their bodies justice, but it was better than nothing.
The group of people under the assorted shower heads unsurprisingly did not speak to one another, nor did they look. This, however, was not something about privacy, it was about fear. Without mirrors, looking at how thin, how bruised and beaten your counterparts were, regardless of gender, was as close to a mirror as they had. It was a reality no one really wanted to confront, so they kept their eyes down and simply moved as quickly as they could.
The morning was unremarkable, as was the hurried journey to the train station and then commute to their working assignments. 870 resumed cleaning where she had left off the previous day, most of the evidence of the party had been cleaned away. With only the occasional strike to her back, for no actual reason, 870 did as she was bid. Another evening train would be missed, another night train would be boarded. Though tonight, 870 had a different destination.
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